


to feel the sun on both sides

by ThatAj



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Armie's Thighs, Come play, D/s undertones, Established Relationship, Insecure Timmy, Lace Panties, Lingerie, M/M, Or briefs sniffing, Panty Sniffing, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Whichever it's basically canon, worship at the altar that is Armie's butt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22539679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatAj/pseuds/ThatAj
Summary: Armie comes over with a surprise for Timmy.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 84
Kudos: 144





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iworshipyou_oliver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iworshipyou_oliver/gifts).

> I don't even know what this is. Unbeta'd and I'm recovering from the flu, be kind.

_But I would rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know._  
Josh Ritter, Snow Is Gone

Timmy is flitting about his small apartment trying to tidy without making it look like he tidied. After all, Armie knows him, knows his messiness, would be suspicious if suddenly every pillow was fluffed and every corner dusted. Armie knows his chaos and loves him despite it, maybe even for it. Or so Armie says.

But Timmy is...not anxious. That’s too strong a word. He’s filled with nervous energy. Excited anticipation. He’s mistimed how long it would take him to get ready, to shower, to style his hair in exactly the way that makes it look like he hasn’t styled it, to select clothes that flatter the parts of him that Armie has, over the years, complimented, remarked on, or otherwise made Timmy take note that “oh, this, this is one thing he _does_ like about me.” Because no matter how long its been and how much Armie shows him in actions, words too but actions above all else, Timmy has an insecure streak a mile wide and just as long. No amount of positive press can quell it because, as Timmy well knows, it comes from a place deep inside him. And he knows, he’s not delusional, he knows what he looks like. Legs thin and coltish and not unlike a woman’s. An angular face that can hardly grow anything more than a shadow of a moustache. A goofy smile on his mouth that, when opened, has a tendency to ramble. He might make a good fashion model, a body like a bag of hangers all sticking out at right angles, but he’s not leading man material. He knows it. He reads about it. He’s too fey, too beautiful. Not like Armie, the Brawny man come to life, a Ken doll personified. 

But when Armie kisses his fingertips and says “your fingers are so long and delicate, it’s like they were designed to touch the stars you’re destined to soar amongst,” or when he twirls one of Timmy’s curls around his fingers when he’s worried or they’re watching a particularly emotional film as he if forgets that Timmy’s body isn’t his own, or when his breath hitches at the sight of Timmy licking his lips in an unconscious habit before taking a sip of his drink. When Armie does those things, it touches something so deep inside Timmy that it, drop by drop, blots at the river of insecurity running through Timmy. 

So Timmy does his hair. He puts on grey joggers that are baggy enough to seem casual but thin enough leave little to the imagination, and throws on a hoodie with a wild print. He knows Armie gets a kick out of his extreme fashion choices. Timmy wearing things that Armie with his large frame couldn’t get away with. Things that Timmy with his fashion model frame can. But nothing that makes it look like he’s trying too hard. However long he’s been with Armie, he never moves beyond the stage of wanting to impress him without making it seem like he’s out to impress him, because he would actually die of embarrassment if Armie knew. Armie has been everything to him: best friend, lover, mentor, brother. And Armie has never treated him as anything but an equal in all things but the part of Timmy that has always idolized Armie still wants to impress him, to make sure he thinks Timmy is cool and worthy. 

He, of course, loves wearing Armie’s clothes. The clothes Armie casually leaves at his place and never mentions when he calls or texts to say he got back to Los Angeles safely. Never says “Oh I think I left my sweater at your place.” Just leaves it like he intends to return. Like it belongs there. But he can’t wear Armie’s clothes when Armie is coming over. 

And he flits. Opens a cabinet and turns all the glasses and mugs so they’re facing the same way. Makes sure the bathroom wastebasket is emptied. Brings the kitchen garbage to the trash chute down the hall. Contemplates lighting the fancy candle Pauline gave him as a housewarming gift. Puts on a playlist. Lights the candle. Makes sure the bed is cleared of the hoodies and socks he tends to discard in the middle of the night. Makes sure the condoms and lube are easily located in the bedside table drawer but not placed in a way that makes Timmy seem too eager. Tidies the scripts and journals and books beside his bed and then moves them around to make them look perfectly imperfectly stacked. He moves to the living room and does the same for the books and scripts and journals on the coffee table. He rubs his finger over a water ring left by a beer he placed there without a coaster a few weeks ago when he came home early from an event for a FaceTime date with Armie but had left himself (again) too much time and was too anxious waiting around. The water ring remains exactly as it is and Timmy shrugs to himself. He wipes his sweaty palms on his joggers and just then hears the firm one-two knock at his front door. 

“Yeah,” Timmy’s voice cracks and he feels a flush creep up his chest and onto his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. He clears his throat as quietly as possible. “It’s open.” Timmy throws himself on the couch and picks up one of the scripts, flipping to a random page. He’s not even really seeing the words on the page yet he can easily tell that with the slightest inspection from Armie the ruse of casual nonchalance would be blown as the script is for a project he would never truly consider as its some period piece and he’s been told by Brian that he needs to take a break from those for the time being. 

He hears the door creak open. Armie is always telling him to get WD-40 for it but Timmy can’t help it if he’s not as handy Armie, who can not only put together furniture (as he did for most of the things filling Timmy’s apartment currently), hang pictures like the signed Kid Cudi print above Timmy’s couch (he used a level, something that haunted Timmy’s fantasies for weeks afterward), but can also recite poetry, understands references to literature, and with those same strong hands that put together furniture and hang pictures, gently gently opens Timmy up and wipes away his tears when it’s all too much. 

Timmy hears Armie drop his bag in the foyer and kick off his shoes. Timmy doesn’t have a strict no-shoes policy at his apartment, that would imply he keeps it clean enough to warrant such a thing, but Timmy himself prefers to lounge around in his socks (he’s famous for them for a reason) and Armie prefers, has always preferred since Timmy met him, to be barefoot. And Timmy never thought of feet, anyone’s feet, as something that could be attractive but goddamnit even Armie’s feet are sexy. 

Armie saunters in like he owns the place. Which, if Timmy had his way, he would. Because Timmy does lie in his bed awake at night and imagine what it would be like to live with Armie full-time, not just grabbing whatever they can whenever their busy schedules allow it. What it would be like to not tidy his mess into a still-believable but less disastrous scene. To gripe at Armie about leaving the sink dirty with shaving cream and whiskers. To feel annoyed when Armie puts back the orange juice with exactly one inch of juice remaining in the box. To have the luxury of feeling frustrated, irrationally angry even, with these habits rather than holding onto them as reminders during the in-between times. Because Timmy waits days before cleaning the sink filled with Armie’s shaving cream and whiskers, using the kitchen sink to wash his face and brush his teeth instead. He lets the one inch of orange juice spoil rather than adding it to the new box he purchases at the store. 

Armie saunters in like he owns the place. Because that’s his way. Because he’s just as insecure as Timmy but hides it better. If hiding it is a good thing, he does it better. He is, in this way especially, Oliver. Moving through the world like a _muvi star_ even though the bravado just hides his discomfort with his emotions, with allowing himself to be truly loved and seen, with the softer sides of himself. 

Armie saunters in like he owns the place. And he looks a treat. Nothing special and Timmy appreciates it. It feeds into his fantasy of them living together. If they lived together, they wouldn’t dress in anything special just to see each other. They would just be. Armie is wearing his beige fleece jacket, the one he wears all the time, and Timmy loves this about him. No matter how big a celebrity Armie is, he is not one of those celebrities who would never deign to be seen in the same outfit more than once. He doesn’t believe in being wasteful, with his words, with his presence at various events, or with his belongings. This is not to say he’s not generous. He is. So giving. Timmy only has to hint that he likes something, he admires something, he recalls a favored memory associated with something to find it delivered to his doorstep, gift-wrapped in tissue paper with a large silk ribbon or maybe, sometimes, even carried by the man himself along with a surprise visit. 

He’s also wearing blue straight leg jeans and Timmy has to consciously and forcibly keep his lower jaw from dropping. It’s not that he hasn’t seen Armie in jeans before. He’s even seen Armie in these jeans in particular. But nothing can prepare Timmy for pants that hug Armie in all the right places, leaving nothing to the imagination. His thick thighs that wrap around Timmy’s narrow waist (that suddenly doesn’t feel too narrow when Armie is writhing beneath him as he shakes and recovers from his orgasm as Timmy fucks into him once, twice, three more times until he’s shaking with the strength of his own orgasm as Armie looks at him with wonder and disbelief and whispers, “How? _How?_”). And his ass. His ass in those jeans. That ass that that Timmy had sunk into that night. That ass that Timmy’s hands, even with those long fingers that Armie loves for some reason, can hardly stretch from where the curve swells from his lower back to the point where it meets the upper meaty part of his thigh. 

Timmy may have successfully kept his jaw from dropping, but he cannot help his eyes from traveling up and down the miles and miles of man standing before him. He tips his head back over the armrest of the sofa and juts his chin out in a half-nod. “Hey.” 

“Hey there,” Armie intones his voice deep and soothing, immediately smoothing out the wrinkles of Timmy’s anticipatory anxiety. 

“Beers are in the fridge,” Timmy says before taking his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it the way he worries about navigating the balance beam of making sure Armie feels welcome, feels like Timmy wants him here and would do anything to make him feel at home, and making it actually feel like home where Armie can help himself to beers in the fridge and the toothpaste in the medicine cabinet. He makes sure to stock Armie’s favorite beers in the fridge - deep dark porters - rather than Timmy’s preference for lighter Mexican lagers like Tecate or Pacifico. Considering Armie is sunny surfer California and Timmy is east coast winter, their taste in beers are a mirror image of what they should be. Timmy hears the fridge open and close followed by the opening and closing of the junk drawer where he keeps the myriad bottle openers he’s collected over the years, each advertising an event or a brewery. He hears the whoosh of air accompanying the opening of the bottle followed by another. Armie walks back out to the living room and hands Timmy a beer, a Modelo that’s been hanging out in the back of the fridge for who knows how long but that Armie dug out because he knew, he always knows, that’s what Timmy would want. 

Armie grabs a coaster and puts his beer down. His taking care of Timmy’s coffee table more than Timmy himself did, causes a brief pang in Timmy and he’s not sure if it’s due to the thoughtfulness of it or if it’s due to a wish that Armie would treat the crappy coffee table (albeit a crappy Ikea coffee table that Armie himself put together) as if it were his own and as if they as a couple had agreed to “fuck it, it’s a shitty table, let’s not worry about using coasters.” He shrugs out of his fleece jacket and saliva pools in Timmy’s mouth at the sight of Armie in a t-shirt that’s been washed so many times it’s nearly see through and is stretched over his chest and shoulders in such a way that it is really testing the stitching on the seams and the overall effect is positively indecent. Armie makes to sit down as though careless of Timmy’s legs stretched out along the length of the sofa and Timmy pulls his knees up to his chest just in time. Armie sits down and Timmy moves his legs back placing them in Armie’s lap. Armie grabs his beer off the coffee table and takes a long swallow, slumps into the couch and flops his head back, and sighs deeply. “S’good to finally be here.” 

Timmy lifts his beer bottle to his mouth and grins around the rim of the bottle. “Good to have you here.” 

Armie takes another long swallow, effectively downing half the bottle and Timmy wonders how he does that as he watches the muscles in Armie’s neck moving as he swallows. “What a fucking long day it’s been. Back-to-back meetings,” he shares as though Timmy hadn’t known his schedule for the day. 

As though Timmy doesn’t know how exhausting it is for Armie to turn on the full charm, to be what everyone expects of him. Everyone thinks acting is Armie’s job, very few, a select few only, know it’s his whole life. Except for these moments. And it shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t, but it makes Timmy feel special and shiny and new because he knows he is one of the few people Armie doesn’t have to act around. It shouldn’t because Timmy should want, and _of course_ he does want Armie to be able to be his authentic self at all times. So Timmy is a terrible person. But at least he knows that. 

“Anything good?” Timmy asks, referring to the meetings. What he’s really hoping for is for Armie to book another Broadway play. One that would run, this time, at time when Timmy would actually be in New York City for its entirety from rehearsals to previews to the entire run. Again, Timmy knows he’s a terrible person. Selfish. 

“Some possibilities, some utter crap and a waste of my time but, you know, gotta show face,” Armie sighs. They both know about taking meetings with Important People for projects that they are not seriously up for or would never actually consider because those Important People could be Good Connections later on. “There are a few real possibilities that I wouldn’t mind your input on,” Armie continues and Timmy can’t lie that this makes him light up inside like Vegas at night. Armie, _Armie,_ wants his input on his _career._ And it’s not the first time it’s happened but it never gets old. “Yeah, maybe later,” Armie finishes and Timmy knows it means he just wants to put work, the meetings, the pressure to be “on,” behind him for now and Timmy nods at that. Armie begins peeling the wrapper off his beer bottle, as though he is anxious somehow. Timmy wonders if it’s a holdover from the meetings or if it’s something Timmy himself has done or not done. He feels like he lives in constant fear of fucking up what he has with Armie. No matter how much time passes, he still can’t truly believe that Armie feels for him anything near what Timmy feels for Armie. Basically, he cannot believe that a boy like him could attract a man like Armie. 

Timmy shifts around on the couch and kicks off his socks onto the floor. He starts to snake a foot up Armie’s shirt attempting to give him some comfort without having to actually move from his comfortable position himself. He works his toes up the side of Armie’s shirt, climbing his ribs, trying to make the motion soothing rather than tickling. Armie’s body radiates heat and it feels good on Timmy’s feet. Armie lets out a little breath, so slight Timmy’s not even sure Armie’s aware he’s done it. 

Timmy, whose mind is never far from sex - he is barely out of his teens as Armie likes to tease him - trails foot down Armie’s side and works his toes into his waistband. He feels Armie tense slightly and briefly. And then, as though coming to a decision, Armie takes a deep breath and purses his lips as he exhales slowly. As Timmy works his toes into Armie’s waistband, he expects to feel the ribbed elastic waistband of his boxer briefs or, and Timmy hopes this is the case, he always hopes this is the case when Armie visits, nothing at all. Instead.

Instead. 

Timmy’s toes graze something that is rough and irregular to the touch. Sitting low on Armie’s hips. Timmy pushes himself to sit straight up, which yanks his foot out of Armie’s pants, gaping at Armie, his mouth forming a perfect “O.” 

“Armie - Armz - what are you...are you wearing....?” Timmy can’t get the words out because. For a million reasons because. Because if he’s wrong he will be embarrassed. Humiliated for letting Armie know how much this would turn him on. Mortified for implying that Armie would even think of, would even be open to, would even do such a thing. 

Flush creeps up Armie’s face and he looks intently at the coffee table where the water ring is. Where Timmy’s half empty beer bottle sits, without a coaster. Where Armie’s empty beer bottle, label in tatters, sits. “It’s, I, I just thought…” He takes another deep breath and says all in one go, “I saw this link and I couldn’t, I couldn’t help myself. And I ordered a pair.”

“A pair of what,” Timmy breathes softly, as though approaching a skittish animal. He knows Armie has a kinky side, into bondage and other kinks, that’s no secret, nothing Timmy needs to hold close to his vest as the whole world knows this (although yes, the bit about Timmy experiencing those kinks at Armie’s own hands he does hold close to the most vulnerable parts of his own self like an untamed and fragile thing). But the parts of Armie that Timmy gets to experience is so different from the image the public has of him. Not that the image is wrong - Armie enjoys rough and wild sex (as does Timmy, he is not complaining) as much as his Twitter likes imply - but it’s not the full picture. The part of Armie that no one else gets to see, to experience, the part of him that’s gentle, that enjoys being cherished, honored, and taken care of. The part of Armie where Timmy feels like he is finally _finally_ able to give Armie something after Armie has given him so much. 

“A pair of,” Armie whispers and then swallows. He glances furtively at Timmy and then down at his lap. Taking a hint, Timmy scrambles onto his hands and knees and crawls over like a cat stalking its prey. Timmy can feel his cock already thickening and is grateful that his position has allowed gravity to shift his joggers to hide his over-eagerness. Timmy’s fingers nimbly unbutton and unzip Armie’s jeans. The whine of the zipper fills the silence like a knife cutting the tension. Timmy pushes Armie’s t-shirt up a bit and peels the sides of his fly apart to reveal a trail of hair disappearing underneath a thin black waistband that sits atop an abstract floral design woven into the lace briefs that Armie is wearing. Armie is sitting preternaturally still and looking straight ahead. Timmy looks up at him from where he is kneeled over his lap, looks up at him from under hooded eyes and long eyelashes. He’s not acting, couldn’t be acting in this moment if he tried, but he knows from his years of experience that the look he’s giving Armie is all sex, is all want, is all naked need. When Armie glances down at Timmy, he visible relaxes and lifts his hips slightly, asking Timmy to keep going, asking Timmy to keep going but to not demand that Armie put into words what he wants, what he needs, what he desires. 

Timmy pulls Armie’s jeans the rest of the way off his hips and through the no-way-to-make-it-sexy process of peeling them down his legs. Armie reaches one hand behind his back and grabs at his t-shirt, pulling it over his head and off. He’s then sat there, on Timmy’s couch, beside Timmy, who’s fully clothed, naked except for a black pair of lacy briefs and Timmy can’t help it, as sensitive as he is to Armie’s vulnerability in this moment. he needs to see more. Timmy pushes at Armie until he’s standing before him, on full display. 

The briefs are not women’s briefs. They are cut with enough room to accommodate a dick and balls, although given Armie’s size and how he is rapidly hardening under Timmy’s lust-filled gaze, the extra room in the design is barely enough. They are cut in the fashion of short boxer briefs, coming down about an inch, inch and a half, on Armie’s thighs. Like they were designed for Armie’s own body, the line drawn by the briefs hits him exactly where his quadriceps begin to bulge, accentuating how muscular and thick his legs are. The floral pattern made more abstract by the hair growing up his thighs like ivy and down from his navel and into the thicket surrounding his cock, already thick and long even in its only semi-aroused state. 

Timmy places a gentle hand on Armie’s hip, right where his oblique muscles snake their way under the waistband, in silent request to turn around. As he slowly pivots, Timmy thinks he can sense Armie slowly starting to preen under Timmy’s admiring gaze. As Armie turns around, Timmy allows his eyes to travel from his broad shoulders, to the defined muscles in his back, to where his waist tapers in right above where the swell of his perfectly peach-shaped ass begins and finally, as a reward for his patience (momentary though it may have been), he allows his gaze to linger. The hair on Armie’s legs clothes them up to where the briefs begin. Timmy loves Armie’s body hair. It makes him so manly. So different from Timmy. When he touches Armie’s body, it doesn’t feel like he’s touching his own. He loves the ways in which Armie’s body is different from his own and at his most confident he cherishes the differences between them, and believes Armie feels the same. And when they are together, actually together physically, not the in-between times over the phone, or text, or even FaceTime, Timmy is able to believe this and hold onto it. During those in-between times, a thing like that slips too easily out from between his fingers. 

Armie’s ass. Armie’s ass in these lacey briefs. Timmy’s breath hitches as he tries to inhale, noticing that suddenly breathing feels unnatural like he has to focus on doing so even though he knows, in some rational part of his brain that is now disconnected from the rest, that breathing should happen without having to think about it. Timmy reaches out a tentative hand and runs his fingertips along the lace, feeling the pattern stretched out across Armie’s skin. Armie lets out a breath that sounds like a soft whine in the back of his throat. 

Timmy slides his fingertips up until his entire palm is resting on Armie’s ass and when his hand makes full contact, feeling the rough texture underneath, Armie sucks in a sharp inhale. Timmy begins to draw his fingers in, trying to grasp the firm flesh beneath his hand and in the absence of being able to really grab the muscle there, kneads it. Armie lets out the breath in a soft moan and Timmy lets his pinky trail up and down the seam in the center, the taut material blocking further access. Timmy’s other hand lifts of its own accord and splays on Armie’s other ass cheek, also kneading it and eliciting another soft moan. He slides his hands up to where Armie’s waist tapers and nudges him until he turns back around to face Timmy. 

As Armie turns, Timmy is faced with Armie’s cock, now hard, beginning to leak, and snaking up through the briefs, the head threatening to push out through the waistband. Timmy leans forward and begins to mouth at the growing wet spot on the lace, enjoying the new texture combined with the scent and taste so familiar to him by now. Armie lets out a groan, deep and rumbly in his chest, the lace is becoming soaked as he is leaking steadily now combined with Timmy’s saliva as he drags his tongue up and down the shaft and gives the head little kitten-like licks. He places his hands on Armies hips and pulls him toward him until Armie is straddling Timmy, one knee on either side of his narrow hips on the couch cushions. 

Timmy can’t help himself as he begins to bite at the lace with little nibbles, pulling at it and letting it snap back against Armie’s skin as he runs his hands up and down Armie’s thighs, enjoying the change in texture from his hair-covered muscles to the textured pattern of the lace. He plants a large open-mouth sloppy kiss on Armie’s cock, hard like steel beneath the delicate briefs, and a moan escapes his lips. His own cock is tenting his joggers, a wet patch evident on the light gray but his own gratification is far from his mind. Or, rather, he’s getting his pleasure from Armie, naked except for these lacy briefs, giving himself over to Timmy, who remains fully clothed. 

As Timmy continues to lick and suck at Armie’s cock, he feels Armie begin to thrust slowly and gently into his mouth. Like he can’t help it, like he’s not aware of it. Like Timmy’s mouth is so enticing, he needs it. Timmy runs his thumbs along the inguinal crease on top of each of Armie’s thighs and up to the waistband which he pulls down, relishing the small gasp Armie lets out when the elastic band catches behind his balls. Timmy is salivating as he anticipates that in a moment he will get to have his mouth on Armie’s skin, where it’s been secretly dressed up in a lacey costume all day. He laves at Armie’s balls, first one and then the other, until they are both glistening and Armie is whimpering. Timmy then turns his attention to Armie’s cock, which is red and soaking wet now. He sucks gently at the tip moaning at the taste of precome before pulling back. 

Timmy sits back and stretches his arms along the back of the couch. He opens his mouth and rests the tip of his tongue on his bottom lip, the invitation clear. Armie gazes down at him seeking additional confirmation and Timmy looks up at him again from under his eyelashes in response. Armie begins thrusting into Timmy’s mouth, tentatively at first as he always does but shortly he loses himself in the sensation and begins fucking Timmy’s mouth in earnest. Armie sinks his fingers into Timmy’s curls and pulls. Timmy feels saliva leak out his mouth and down his chin and his eyes begin to tear, as he chokes and gags. 

Timmy feels like a ragdoll at Armie’s mercy, existing solely for Armie’s pleasure. It should feel objectifying. It should feel demeaning. But it doesn’t. More than anything it feels powerful. _I did this. I am responsible for his pleasure and fuck fuck fuck I’m making him feel so good. Me. Just me. Only me,_ he thinks as Armie lets out a slew of half-formed swear words, moans, and grunts above him. 

Armie’s cock is hard in his mouth, pistoning into his throat like a steel rod, and then, almost impossibly, it grows harder and thicker and Timmy prepares himself and, even so, within moments come is flooding his mouth with that taste that’s both bitter and all-Armie. His mouth fills and come trickles out the corners of his mouth as Armie continues to thrust, more slowly, through his orgasm. Trembling and shaking, Armie collapses into Timmy’s arms and Timmy guides him until they’re lying on the couch tangled up in each other. 

Timmy is catching his breath when he feels Armie’s lips ghosting over his forehead and cheeks, deepening as he moves closer to Timmy’s lips until he’s licking into his mouth, chasing the taste of himself. And Timmy sucks Armie’s tongue into his mouth, loving this, loving Armie desperate and insatiable, already rutting against Timmy’s thigh, even with his lace briefs still partway down his thighs, his cock soft and warm. Timmy hooks his leg around Armie’s pulling him on top of him and closer, impossibly closer, if it were possible to merge as one as close as he feels to Armie right now. 

Timmy begins thrusting against Armie’s leg and fuck if it doesn’t provide him the perfect friction and he’s just on the edge. Armie clutches at the back of his shirt and pulls him in, cups his ass in his hands, which cover him entirely and then some. At times like these, Timmy loves _loves_ and gets off on the difference in their size. That Armie can hold Timmy against him, cover his entire ass with one large hand, like it’s nothing. Like he’s big and strong enough to hold all of Timmy and all his anxieties and keep him safe. And with that he’s coming, moaning and biting down in the crook where Armie’s neck and shoulder meet and spilling into his joggers. 

They remained entwined like that, come and sweat cooling on their bodies, as Armie grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tucks it around them as they drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to shesgonerogue for pointing me to the very existence of lacey undergarments for people who need the extra space in front. 
> 
> Armie's briefs can be found here: https://www.skiviez.com/collections/lace-underwear/products/male-power-mp145162-mini-short?variant=28996655939618


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He finds the lacey briefs under his bed. He had assumed Armie took them with him. This was not the type of thing Armie would leave behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't supposed to exist. This was supposed to be a one shot. And I have several other WIPs so this is very irresponsible. An idea came to me and wouldn't let go and I wanted to play around with some kinks and well here we are. 
> 
> Please note the updated tags.

He finds the lacey briefs under his bed. He had assumed Armie took them with him. This was not the type of thing Armie would leave behind. This isn’t a sweater or a pair of pajama bottoms, vestiges of domesticity that Timmy craves, and he had assumed that Armie had carefully packed them back into his suitcase when he left. And, Timmy now realizes, that Armie must have gotten home to Los Angeles and realized they were missing but felt too embarrassed to ask Timmy to look for them. 

The idea that something embarasses Armie - sexually at least - sends a shiver like a cube of ice down Timmy’s spine. 

Timmy is looking under his bed because he dropped his cell phone on the floor sitting on the edge of his bed after hanging up the call, slumped over, his elbows on his knees, and his mouth twisted to the side as he chewed on the corner of his mouth. Armie had called to say he wasn’t going to be able to make his flight today due to a last minute meeting with a big name director that Timmy _knows_ is on Armie’s dream list, and they would have to postpone his visit to the following weekend. 

Timmy tries to not take it personally but he can’t help the sting. He knows he’s pouting. The type of pout he might play up, to his advantage, if Armie were here, but he’s not and he’s not going to be. Another week of phone and FaceTime sex with his boyfriend. 

It took them so long to get to this point, where they were free to date, that their lives as friends had become so intertwined that it felt right rush in. Like fools, as the song admonishes. And Timmy knows it’s partially his youth and inexperience pushing him forward and Armie is the wiser one here, and he should listen. He does listen, he really tries to be good. But living on two separate coasts, each with careers that take them all over the world, makes Timmy petulant. They’ve only been together a short time and yet it feels like they’ve known each other a lifetime. He wants them to live together, wants everything there is of Armie. And he is jealous, Armie has done this before, gone through the stages from dating to living together, figuring out how to take two separate self-contained beings and make them two halves a greater whole. But he also trusts Armie, of course he does, he trusts him with this, with them. And Armie does not think they should co-habitate yet. 

They practically are, Timmy both reminds himself and pouts to Armie, they live in each other’s houses as if at home. Almost, because they still pack suitcases when they visit each other even if leaving something is no longer called “forgetting.” Except for these, the briefs. Armie has definitely forgotten his worn lace briefs under Timmy’s bed. Timmy places his phone on the bed and reaches for the briefs, only able to slip a finger on each side of the lace and hook them, they’re so far under the king size bed that Timmy insisted he purchase so that Armie could be comfortable when he visits even though it takes up nearly all the space in his room. 

He lets himself fall backward onto the bed, the duvet happily accepting his weight with a soft sigh, slight though he may be, and clutches the briefs to his chest. He rubs the lace between his fingers, relishing the rough texture of the delicately woven fabric against his narrow finger tips. Fabric rougher for the fluids spilled and dried. The memories return to him like a slideshow and he shifts, feeling his cock begin to fatten between his legs. 

He misses Armie. He would even if they lived together. Timmy is not satisfied with anything less than his presence. He vaguely wonders if, with time, this desperate sort of feeling might fade. Whether there will come a time when this relationship feels real, not a creation from the mind of a boy with a crush on his older costar. A time when time together doesn’t feel stolen, when the days stretched ahead of them feel as though they belong to them and are infinite. When Armie’s absence isn’t like a spoon in a bowl of miso soup, stirring up lifelong insecurities from where they are usually pushed to the back of his mind and well-hidden from the world. 

Timmy runs a hand over his mouth, his face smooth from shaving earlier in anticipation of Armie’s arrival. He sighs to himself. Get used to it, he thinks. Last minute meetings, long stretches on location, theater runs in cities neither call home, this was the life they had each chosen before they met. This was the life that brought them together. Each of them pulled toward acting because he had no other choice, like breathing. Or falling in love. 

Timmy lifts the briefs to his cheek, wanting to feel the rough texture against the smoothness of his skin. He relishes the sensation of touch, soft hoodies and blankets and hard smooth cold metal and soft hair and rough stubble, he explores the world through his fingertips. It’s only once the briefs are up by his face that he remembers the scene. He blushes and feels his insides heat up with embarrassment and he wants the friendly duvet to envelope him and suffocate him and take him out of this world. So embarrassed without any witnesses beyond the pillows smirking behind him. He’s embarrassed that he had even forgotten that scene. He imagines someone here, shaking their head at him. Thinking he is ridiculous for nearly reenacting the scene without intending to. More than the scene with the peach, putting Oliver’s swim trunks on his head was the hardest to film. After all, there was at least some precedent with fucking food - Jason Biggs had done it, although for laughs not as part of an emotional act of discovering sexuality and first love. He had been nervous to film the swim trunks scene, afraid it would play for comedy rather than Elio’s desire for Oliver, to be him, to be with him. And, in the end, it was the peach scene that everyone discussed. Timmy is further embarrassed by the memory, recalling becoming aroused because the crew hadn’t washed the swim trunks. 

At just the memory of Armie’s scent, Timmy inhales more deeply, seeking out that same scent in the air. And without fully intending to, as though he is going to have to defend himself and his motives later before a faceless jury, he slides the briefs across his face and over his nose. The lace pulls up into his nose as he inhales and puffs out with the exhale. And oh. The scent is sharper than it had been in the swim trunks and it fills not only Timmy’s nose but hits him in the back of his throat, sense memory washing over his taste buds. His eyes close and he can imagine Armie is here with him, the scent of their coming together infusing the room. 

He bites his lip to hold in a moan as his hand trails down his torso to first push up the soft cotton of his t-shirt and then to pull down his joggers, lifting his hips to aid their journey, down around his knees. He wraps his hand, slightly sweaty from the flush of embarrassment, around his cock, fully hard now and already leaking. He strokes himself, once, twice, before reaching out his hand and groping around to his bedside table to find the lube he hadn’t yet put away in the drawer for Armie’s arrival. He opens it one-handed and lets it drip over his cock, hissing at and enjoying the sudden cold over hot swollen flesh. With lube to ease the way, his hand flies over his cock until he is thrusting up, fucking into his fist. 

He hasn’t come in several days, he’s promised Armie he would be good, wait for him. As he pushes the lace against his face and mouths at it a little, the hurt and anger from Armie’s cancellation, no _postponement,_ weave together with lust and longing to drive him hurtling towards orgasm, his thighs shaking with the effort and the climax. He gently releases his cock, which has become oversensitive and trails his fingers up his concave stomach and through the come just above his navel and between his slight pectoral muscles. The lace around his mouth dances back and forth as he pants. On an inhale, he lifts his fingers to his mouth and paints his lips with the viscous fluid that hangs like a spiderweb between the thinnest branches of a tree. He then shoves his fingers against the lace and into his mouth, sucking and licking them as he would Armie’s cock, missing the weight of it. 

He lies there panting around his come-soaked fingers when a deep, kind, “Fuck, Tim” makes him jump and nearly fall off the bed, the duvet scrambling to accommodate his flailing limbs as he tries to sit up and pull the briefs off his face all at once. He hears the swish of Armie’s pants as he moves quickly from the doorway, he smells the faint scent of his cologne in the air and he feels the mattress dip beside him and a large warm hand wraps around his narrow shoulder. “No, stay,” Armie commands, his voice nudging the edge of something more powerful. 

Timmy collapses back on the bed, painfully aware of the remains of come quickly cooling on his belly and chest. “What did I just walk in on?”

“You- you said you weren’t coming,” Timmy whispers, aware that his words are filtered by the lace and spilling from come-covered lips. 

“I wanted to surprise you,” Armie’s tone takes the softness that it does when he accumulates more evidence that Timmy likes routine, predictability, knowing what’s ahead in a life that has no regular schedule, when every project takes him someplace new physically, emotionally, geographically. Armie isn’t used to that. He’s used to grand gestures and big surprises being expected. They’re learning their way around each other’s cracks and learning how to shape themselves to fill them. 

Timmy swallows hard. This is something they’ve been experimenting with. Rules, orders, expectations. They have an agreement, Timmy’s orgasms belong to Armie. They both like it that way. The anxiety that comes with decision-making, like one of those _Choose Your Own Adventure_ books, except, in life, Timmy can’t stick his thumb in the page while he reads ahead to where each decision leads. It comforts him, to give control over like this. And Armie delights in his trust, bathes in it as though he is being born anew, learning to trust himself through the trust Timmy places in him. 

“You were disappointed, weren’t you, when I told you my trip was postponed,” Armie’s voice fills Timmy from within with warmth almost this edge of too much, like drinking hot tea on a very cold day. “You tried to behave, but look at you, you couldn’t help yourself.” His fingers trail over the lace, tracing the pattern across Timmy’s cheekbone following it down to his lips, resting his pointer and middle finger on the plush bottom lip. Timmy opens his mouth and Armie pulls his hand away, only returning it when Timmy listens to the silent command and closes his mouth again. “What are we going to do? I know you want to be good for me.” 

At that word, “good,” Timmy whimpers. Armie’s deep voice cradles him and he feels the edges of himself start to sparkle and splinter. He lets himself lie back into that safety Armie provides, gives himself over to it. Trusts that Armie will walk him to the edge and the two of them can enjoy the thrill of it and Armie will not let him fall over it, will not mention the red swim trunks. Not now at least, not when Timmy is lying prone, shirt rucked up, sweatpants around his knees. Maybe later, over dinner and alcohol, he’ll say something with a sparkle in his eyes like the sun reflecting off of a blue lake, gently teasing. But later, after Timmy is taken apart and made whole again. 

“Fuck,” Armie whispers, to himself, pushing his fingers against Timmy’s lip, as though testing out the firmness like his bottom lip is a mattress he might want to sleep on every night. As much as they both enjoy Armie being in control, as much as it soothes Timmy’s anxiety in a way he would have never predicted, Timmy also collects the moments when Armie loses that control just a little, when the power Timmy has over him slips out from one of those cracks. Armie quickly tears the lace briefs off of Timmy’s face and bends down and kisses Timmy hard, traces his lips, chasing the taste of him, and then pushes his tongue in, as though his next breath is coming from Timmy’s lungs. He shifts his weight so he’s on top of Timmy, pushing against him, letting him feel how affected he is by what he walked in on, his bare feet tangling with Timmy’s. Timmy shifts, not knowing whether he wants to push himself closer against Armie, if the rough texture of his jeans against his softened cock (which is admirably thickening again) and the cold of his belt buck against his navel is too too too much or just enough or if he actually needs more, more to push him right to the edge. Armie takes Timmy’s face in his hands and Timmy’s brain shuts off that his brain’s frenetic questioning with relief; Armie will take care of him. 

Timmy’s fingers feel cold with desperation and he slips them below Armie’s waistband, cupping the curve of his ass with each hand, his fingers long but barely able to cover the round muscular globes. Armie rolls his hips against Timmy, letting him feel his length, thick and hard against his hip. Timmy answers by thrusting his hips up against, his cock rubbing against Armie’s thigh, the slightly painful scratch of the denim against his oversensitized skin just this side of not enough. “Oh Tim,” Armie breathes into him. “Thought you had to be satisfied with whatever you could get but now that you have the real thing, it’s not enough is it?”

Timmy whines and shakes his head no in response as Armie snakes his hand between them, squeezing his cock and then letting his hand remain gently wrapped around it, the warring sensations pushing Timmy further into soft clouds of pleasure. He whimpers again.

Armie pulls back and looks at him, concern written across his face as he pushes the curls off of Timmy’s forehead and gently presses his lips to his hairline. He murmurs, “You’ve tried so hard, being so good for so long. I - I shouldn’t’ve, it’s not your fault.” 

Timmy blinks open his eyes, holding Armie’s gaze, wanting to reassure him, pulling back from the golden liminal space where he had been existing, “No, it’s okay. You were doing something nice, trying to surprise me. Even, even if you hadn’t been, I should be able to- to wait a week.” He rolls his eyes at his own behavior, more embarrassed by that, now, than being caught in the position he was in. 

“No, no I would have been disappointed too...you’re okay, you’re fine.” Armie reassures him and buries his head in Timmy’s neck at the admission that he misses Timmy just as much, is just as needy for what they have. He picks his head up and captures Timmy’s eyes with his own, asking and receiving consent for moving forward, slipping back into the roles they have been trying on and finding they fit, less like new clothes and more like finally feeling at home in the skin they were already living in. “Missing the real thing, huh?”

Timmy lowers his eyes, his long eyelashes painting shadows on the tops of his sharp cheekbones, pulls that strawberry bite of a lip between his teeth, and nods several times. Armie runs the thumb of his free hand along his lip in silent demand to release it. Timmy obeys and glances up to see a small smile play at Armie’s mouth before he rolls off of Timmy, who sighs at the loss of the weight and the warmth and the physical reassurance that being trapped under Armie provides. Armie tosses a glance to Timmy over his shoulder as he quickly strips out of his clothes. The glance cradles Timmy, comforts him. 

Armie climbs back on top of Timmy, this time his thighs bracketing Timmy’s head and he can hardly breathe with Armie’s thighs, stiff dripping cock, and small furled hole all on display for him. He licks his lips like a kid in a candy store as Armie gently noses the soft skin where Timmy’s thighs meet his groin and commands with a hoarse voice, “You said you wanted the real thing, show me how much.” 

Like a gun going off, Timmy’s jolted, goes from lost to found in an instant. He begins to lick the head of Armie’s cock, he and Armie both moaning as he receives a gush of precome. He skates his hands up Armie’s firm ass cheeks, kneading at them as he takes more of Armie into his mouth and throat, hollowing his cheeks. Armie lets out a guttural groan as he drops his forehead to Timmy’s knee. “That’s it, so good. Just like that.” 

Tears gather at the corners of Timmy’s eyes, from his airway being partially blocked, from the praise he’s receiving, the balance of kind and cruel, punishing and pleasure.

Armie picks up the lace briefs from where they had, once more, been discarded and wraps them around Timmy’s cock, hard again while still sensitive, and starting jacking him off. 

The tears run now, streaming down his cheeks as the borders of his consciousness sizzle and crack. He pulls off Armie’s cock and pulls on his hips until his senses are full infused with Armie and he begins to lick at his hole like a man starved, Armie’s taste dancing along his taste buds, the scent of him climbing up his nostrils, his skin, always so warm and comforting, brushing against his face. 

As Armie’s hole loosens in response to Timmy’s efforts and Timmy inches his hand along Armie’s cheek, his fingers aching to join his tongue. 

“Tim,” Armie’s voice cracks and he clears his throat. “Tim, mouth only,” he cautions.

And Timmy wants to be good, _is_ good. His hand immediately returns to its original position, holding Armie open, caressing him, worshipping at the altar surrounding him. His mind is floating lazily down the river of full consciousness, someplace between here and completely elsewhere. 

“Fuck, fuck, yes, just like that. God fuck don’t stop,” the words spill from Armie filling all the empty places inside Timmy. Armie’s head is laying on Timmy’s thigh, watching mesmerized as the lace moves up and down his shaft, precome and lube from earlier easing its path. The rough edges keeping Timmy present. And despite having come so recently, Timmy already begins to feel the spool of his orgasm unwinding in his belly. He tries to focus his attention on Armie, stiffening and pointing his tongue and fucking his hole with it, but he can feel himself start to shake. 

Armie knows all his tells. Armie holds his orgasm in his mouth. Timmy lets himself relax into that knowledge, carried along gently by it. Armie is whimpering against his skin. The sound and feel of it is an anchor for Timmy. 

Armie speeds up his movements, twisting his hand as it moves up and down. “Come for me,” he bites out and watches as come spurts out the top of Timmy’s laced-wrapped cock. He moans, at the honesty, the trust Timmy places in him. And Timmy hears him beyond the fluffiest and sharpest clouds of bliss. He’s rolling and feels like he has a deep itch that’s being scratched in the most delicious way. He knows, deep down, that at least part of Armie’s pleasure is due to the trust that Timmy places in him, to know what he needs and when, and he believes that more and more every day. 

Armie strokes Timmy through his climax, mouthing at the inside of his thighs. As soon as Timmy’s writhing turns into discomfort, Armie drops the briefs and reaches between them, fisting his own cock, which has been thick and wet and rubbing against Timmy’s chest as Armie rocks back and forth onto his face. A stroke, a second one and Armie pulses white hot ribbons onto Timmy below him, his hips beating out an unsteady rhythm, groaning through it while he licks at him, eats him out through it. 

Armie reaches down to the floor to grab his t-shirt and wipes them both up, quickly. He will do a better, more careful job later. Timmy is motionless and boneless and hardly notices as Armie wraps himself around him and rocks them back and forth, working the pillowy duvet out from under them and tucking it around them like a warm hug. Timmy feels Armie’s fingers on his forehead, brushing his sweaty curls away and he blinks up at him. 

“There you are,” Armie’s voice is soft and rumbly against Timmy.

“Here I am,” the words feel sticky but true in Timmy’s mouth. “Was I, did I do okay?”

“The best, you were the best,” Armie assures him, taking care of him now as he did before. 

Timmy’s smile spills over his face and he beams into the praise. Words are still sticky but he anchors himself, tugging on Armie’s chest hair. “So you’re here this weekend, not next?”

Armie chuckles, vibrating against Timmy’s cheek, warm and comforting, like being rocked. “Oh I didn’t lie about that. I _will_ be here next weekend.”

Timmy attempts to lift his head to look at Armie and, when he fails, nuzzles in closer, pushing what atoms exist between them away. “You coming back?” he asks in wonder, slurring his words slightly. 

“No,” Armie laughs out loud now. “I’m here all week.”

Timmy sighs with contentment and allows his eyes to flutter close, allowing this feeling to carry him forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh let me know your thoughts?
> 
> I might go further with a D/s fic. So there's that. But after I've finished some of my WIPs. Responsible writer from here on out, I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments and kudos give me LIFE.  
thatajthings on tumblr


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